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Chapter 47: All the Pretty Little Horses

Chapter 47: All the Pretty Little Horses

April

I've been here with Bree all week long while she regains strength. Usually, after a C-section, the mom and baby only have to stay for two or three days. But given Bree's blood loss, they want to keep her here longer and monitor her progress. If she goes home and starts hemorrhaging again, it could be deadly.

My teachers have all been real cool about it though. I'm submitting everything online and helping Bree get through some of her test material so she can get credit by exam in May.

Colt is doing awesome. That's what we named him—Colt Grady Chaplin.

I mean, that's what we named him after a lot of debate. I was right. Bree had a long list of names written down in her little pink journal, most of which I thought sounded kind of pretentious. Like Banks. Who names a tiny baby Banks? It sounds like a butler's name. Colt was the only one I could stomach. It suits him. And Grady was her mom's maiden name, so I caved because I'm trying to get back on Gram's good side. Bree's Gram seems pretty irritated by the way everything went down. Turns out that if Bree had more consistent prenatal care, they would have seen the red flags and possibly averted the complete disaster we went through. Even with insurance, the hospital bills are going to be stupid expensive, given Colt's round-the-clock care for what they estimate will be another five weeks.

Honestly, I don't care because I'm so relieved that they're both alive and well. The nursing staff says they've never seen a preemie born at twenty-eight weeks thrive like Colt has. So, the money's worth it, and I'll find a way to pay Gram back some day.

Bree was real tired for the first few days after surgery. She slept almost the whole time. But today she's finally strong enough, so they wheeled her in to the NICU for some kanga time.

I'm actually kind of jealous because it was sort of our thing, mine and Colt's.

When I rock him now, I sometimes sing, mostly when none of the nurses are lurking around. The song he likes best is one Ma used to sing to me, All the Pretty Little Horses. My voice isn't pretty, but I don't think Colt cares. I hold him chest to chest and sing "Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleep you little baby. When you wake, you'll have cake, and all the pretty little horses. Blacks and bays, dapples and greys, a coach and six white horses. Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleep you little baby."

It's our bonding time.

But it's important that Bree bond with him too, so I'm giving them some space.  

While she's out, I try to organize the hospital room. Things can get a little disorderly when two people live in a room the size of a cracker-box all week. I line our books along the windowsill, fold up the blankets and stack them on top of the pillows at one end of the couch, and pick up the wrappers, empty water bottles, and random computer and phone chargers. Bree left her laptop on her bed, so I plug it in and place it on the movable tray.

Her pink journal had been tucked under a sheet, so I lay that next to her computer.

Then I sit on the couch and open All the Pretty Horses. I'm almost to part four, but I've been reading at a snail's pace with all the other crap that's been going down. I start where I left off—John and Rawlins just got out of the hospital, and they're banged up pretty bad—but for some reason, I can't focus.

My eyes keep drifting to her journal. What the hell is the matter with me? Why do I always get the urge to know what she's writing? My eyes dart to the clock. She's been in there about twenty minutes, which means I have another forty-five.